


Witchhunt

by orphan_account



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon Compliant, Exile, Headcanon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Speculation, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Vampires, Witch Hunters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:55:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26871778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: An account of a dhampir and her peculiarities.





	Witchhunt

Markarth was a city of stone and secrets. Rife with strange shadows and disputes between families and forsworn. Violent and cold-hearted, it was a dark place; isolated, dangerous, internally and irreparably damaged. It was a place in need of a hunter of sorts, someone to assist in weeding out and striking down the secluded evils that stalked behind its great dwarven walls. And, from a well-traveled message tacked with a bone pin to the job board of a Solitude tavern, Markarth Hold asked for one such person; a warrior, mercenary, or otherwise masterless by-appointment temporary hire, skilled in the hunting, disposal, and dispelling of witches, deadra, vampires, were-beasts and other unnatural threats.

Camilla, who sat beside a silver greatblade far too massive for her own hands, had found a comfortably isolated seat at a far corner table of a Solitude tavern. A hood of black hair obscured her face – Imperial, harsh Colovian features, with ruddy eyes the color of a withering rose. She could have passed for twenty-four or forty-two. And beside the warmth of fire, she ground insatiably at a marble mortar and pestle, filled with a carefully dissected assortment of plant and insect parts; the traditional and most simple method of alchemical experimentation. Each churn of the mixture served as a reminder – in gratitude – that these trees and flowers held more magic in a single leaf than she could manage to draw from her entire body.

Tonight, the magics of the land served forth their destructive properties. She crushed and toyed with the materials of poison – bitter, painful - if she weren't wearing gloves the salts and nightshade would burn her skin.

The old barkeep threw some logs upon his fire and prodded at the wood, and heat radiated. A blessing, since it was a cold, rather dreadful sort of evening. The winds of Northern Skyrim were always having some sort of dispute, gusting and rattling against the window panes – this Sundas was no different, and a horde of strangers had wandered in looking for shelter from the dropping temperatures. They had just closed up shop, unwinding after another day of work. Some had come from the palace – nobles, those employed by the royal court of Solitude. A city and its mundane life; quiet and simple, purposeless yet enjoyable.

Yet the taverngoers made hushed accusations, no more than whispers. Fearful little quips that pressed her ears; concerned questions about this dark stranger in Solitude. What manner of creature does one kill to need a blade like that? What did she do to earn a burn like that on her face? Are those poisons for monsters or people?

In her unique case, they were for monsters – for the most violent and vicious of beasts and all the Skyrim wild's most abhorrent ilk, cloistered away in the mountain caverns and singing their nighttime rituals among the moorland cattails.

She was a witchhunter. A monster-slayer. A bane of beasts and hunter of vampires. A wanderer and a nobody who was never quite remembered but always noticed. Instinctively distrusted more often than appreciated. Content in the slaughter of all the strange evils that plagued lands, and humbled to take on such thanklessly necessary tasks.

A good profession for one so absurdly cursed.

Completely preoccupied by potion-making, Camilla barely felt the clunk of some hard object strike her back. The impact sent a handful of fire salts flying to the ground, and the scattered crystals sparked threateningly on the floor.

“Hey, barkeep, the witch is trying to set your inn on fire!” Someone called out.

“She's casting a spell to burn it down!”

Busily stomping out the little flares, Camilla steeled her nerve and remained silent. The table of patrons behind her burst into laughter, merrily elbowing each other and slamming their tankards around drunkenly. They might have tossed something else, if not for a caustic glare proving enough to change their tone.

“Don't like those eyes she's got -” One said, shaking,“ - they're beastly. Something's wrong with her.”

“Because she's a witch! And she's going to poison the mead!”

They kept yelling, making complete fools of themselves, entirely aware that all the commotion was drawing attention. Camilla felt the prying eyes of strangers upon her, and what were whispers but moments ago suddenly became idle chatter. Complaints began to reach the ears of the tavernkeep, who finally, fed up with the disruption, abandoned his smoldering logs and instead brandished the screeching hot poker like a sword. The heat radiated and assaulted her senses differently. It was threatening. 

“Know I never seen ye before, lass. But obviously, a lot of customers get wary having ye around the place.” The tavernkeep remarked. “They see you heavily armed and stinkin' of poison. Makes em' nervous. Makes em' rowdy. You just ain't right, and it's hurting my business having you sitting at that table mixing up your magic concoctions.”

Camilla's eyes turned dark, bilious, and solemnly aware.

“But I paid for a room tonight. I _paid_ for a room. And I've done nothing.”

“You're making poisons in the middle of my tavern.”

She managed a discontented stare, like a child just been reprimanded. In some other life, this innkeep might have pitied her.

“Look, I don't want arguments. I got a right to refuse service and you alone ain't enough business to keep food on my table. More boots will be through my door if I ask ye to kindly pack up your witchcraft and leave. ”

She'd pack up her things and be on her way. Again.

* * *

Solitude may have been the most Imperialized of Skyrim's large cities, but Nords still spit wherever she tread. It really was an incredible twist of fate – how she could spent a lifetime and then some trekking every corner of this untamed province and yet feel no closer to its heart. And now, with the rebellion, Camilla felt the very spirit of the old kingdom look upon her with shame, branded as some sort of invader. Yet, she did not hate it here – did not hate being chased out of taverns, nor did she hate this new obsession with 'faithless Imperials'. Because this land was massive, it was vast and feral, and so rarely did she meet the same person twice.

She pulled up her hood, and the sharp lines of her face disappeared inside its depths.

It was by some other incredible twist of fate, that Millie glanced over the notice board upon the tavern wall before leaving. An instinctive thing to do, entirely ingrained and mundane in her line of work. A few odd jobs were posted – deliveries, commission work for the East Empire Company, the stable looking for some hired hands – typical commoner labor. But one stood out, stamped with a bold Imperial dragon, and written in metallic ink. Camilla thoughtfully examined the note, it read;

_“By order of the Imperial Legion,_

_Legate Procyon Augustus of the Imperial Legion Reach detachment seeks mercenary or hunter interested in temporary employment under jurisdiction of Imperial law to rid surrounding area of beasts menacing Legion camps, assumed to be werewolves or werebears. Experienced applicants preferred. Compensation will be rewarded upon completion of task. If interested, seek Legate Procyon Augustus at the Imperial Legion Reach encampment. Border passes will be issued to accepted applicants. Location posted on separate map.”_

“What is going on in Cyrodiil these days? An Emperor's been assassinated, I hear of riots and warfare in our own cities, and good Legionnaires are still trapped in Skyrim fending off a petty civil war...and being assaulted by werebeasts.” The hunter mused in whisper. “But, a legal border pass, while the border is closed -?” She tore the flimsy parchment from its pin, absently remarking how shoddy these thin papers felt compared to the rich vellum she'd learned to write on. Below, a map marked some vague location by a fork between Markarth and Rorikstead.

Always on the run, always moving, always shifting, she'd traveled those roads before. A month ago, a decade ago, for it all seemed to blend together, content to live this grand and seemingly unending lie.

A little chime over the doorframe echoed tenuously.

* * *

Camilla propped her travel pack atop the boxes of cargo and mercantile, It was mounted on a wooden frame, tied tight with twine and deer hide peddled from on of the many hunters she'd crossed paths with in Skyrim's deeper wilderness. It was a savage thing filled with odd curiosities and profane objects, and a simple rustic lantern hung from its base. Her silver greatsword – beast of a sword it was, nearly as long as its handler was tall and hefty enough to strain the arms of any grown Nord – was strapped over her shoulder. And attached to her belt, a crossbow. The crossbow itself was steel. The bolts were silver.

The Vigilants suggested strapping consecrated amulets of Stendarr and Arkay somewhere visible.

She declined, to their utmost disapproval.

But she hated dealing with Vigilants anyway.

* * *

“You know, I hate finding you all the way up here.” The moons were at their apex, casting a soft glow over the otherwise unknowable witching hours of the night. “Someone's antsy. I hope you're finally leaving Solitude.”

The roofs high atop the Blue Palace would have been an ideal hideaway, if not for the elder vampire who called them home. The view of marshlands below stretched out for miles. Fog drifted against the moon and snaked among the sails of ships moored in the harbor.

“I am. I'll be heading to the Reach. And then to Cyrodiil, I think. The Empire is a tragedy these days. I can't take it anymore. I need to go. I need to see Cyrodiil again.” Camilla turned her head quietly, and saw the grisly bat-like face of a previous employer – Sybille Stentor, the court mage of Solitude – staring her down with inflamed eyes and silent disgust. Up upon the parapets, where mortals couldn't reach, the mage stalked her prey from these roof tops. She looked down upon her territory, with eyes sharper than the hawks that soared by daylight. Hungry, secret, content in her position of power. The mage may have worn a facade of civility, but there was nothing truly civil about a sorceress who once served Potema.

It was such a shame. How dare this vile creature command the halls of such a beautiful castle. Oh, how Camilla longed to thrust a dagger down her throat. What an incredible duel it would be, here in the freezing moonlight over the capital of Skyrim. It would be righteous and necessary – to rid the aristocracy of such an infiltrator. If only someone would put a bounty on her head. For what motive did she have other than loathsome envy, and acting upon such petty jealousy would be a mistake of character. She was stronger than that. And Sybille too, was surely stronger than expected.

“Good. I hope the Minotaurs gore a hole through your heart.” Sybille's words struck like a curse. “I'm sick of seeing your face in my nightmares.”

For a brief silence, they assessed each other.

“Ha! I'm the subject of an _ancient's_ nightmares! Priceless!” Camilla threw her voice to the air and managed a quick, untrustworthy smile. “If that's the case, you must be afraid of being hunted. Don't worry. I'm sure Solitude will turn on you eventually.”

The very insinuation of such things made Sybille laugh.

* * *

Climbing down from high places was her favorite hobby. The way the air and sounds changed as she descended hearkened back to childhood memories of struggling up the trunks of oak trees and pulling herself onto awnings over courtyard paths. But nowadays, in this new century, the walls clung to her instead, and the precarious flat stonework of Skyrim's Blue Palace proved no obstacle.

Descending on the night winds, Camilla admired the coast. The water. The ships – some of them were probably on their way back to Anvil or Leyawiin. She imagined how easy it might be to just hide in a box of cargo and ship herself home. Clawing against the wall, she glanced upward. Seabirds nested underneath the great stone arch. The impending arrangement of crickets and nighttime wildlife – distant wolves, owls, the low cries of elk upon the swamplands – felt as some hollow crescendo as she dropped from the walls and brushed off her gambeson. As if nothing were strange or the matter at all, and no dock worker who could have witnessed her would think anything of it.

This was a beautiful place.

But this was her last night in Solitude. She would never return to this city.

A shame it couldn't be spent somewhere warm. Displaced and spurned from the company of humans, Camilla took to her final sleep here in the capital entrenched under a crevice by the coast, surrounded by wolves and skeevers rather than people. A circumstance so familiar, there was almost no point in feeling rejection over it.

She dreamed of recent memories, a welcome respite from occasional nightmares, though sometimes her life was absolutely nightmarish.

_< “Well, it appears we have a problem.” The Redguard spit his observation like bitter venom._

_Camilla clasped a gloved hand over the side of her face, inadvertently bearing her teeth out of sheer agony. But she looked her employer in the eye – let him look upon her in the consecrated light. It seared her face, boiled her flesh – she made sure Isran watched as it marked her, crippling her mind with a new and sudden revulsion._

_How could this have happened? Why did this happen?!_

_The Redguard took her aside, handling her with all the dignity one would show a rabid dog._

_“Should have expected at least one of your kind would infiltrate our ranks.” He remained wary. Composed, yet poised to strike. “There was always something off about you. Should have suspected something when you volunteered for the night shift.”_

_“And, what? Would you have wanted the peasants and their axes standing guard over defenseless refugees at night?” Camilla questioned, rasping. She tried desperately to keep her tone even, but the throbbing pain would not subside. “Cast your spell. I am mortal!”_

_Isran narrowed his gaze, cautiously amassing the cold blue life detection spell in his palm. It radiated, and confirmed her status as a creature of flesh and blood. She was alive – a beating heart, a strong pulse, equipped with all the properly functioning innards of a living thing. In an instant, the magic dissipated, leaving a solemn moment of hesitation and confusion._

_But the Dawnguard leader was hardly a man who feared his prey. When that momentary hesitation settled, he stepped forward, and roughly – savagely - clasped Camilla's scarred face in his hand. He drew her lip, examining her teeth like she were some animal. Apparently unsatisfied, Isran tossed her aside, and the force of rejection threaded another rush of pain through her body. This time, it hit harder, deeper – entrenched like a knife in her gut. This entirely vampiric psychological distress._

_“Get out of here, monster. Leave by sundown, or I'll have you slain.” >_

In the dream, she walked alone through a pair of heavy doors. The scenery changed, no longer bright and chilled by clean air and white running rivers. Rather, it became a stagnant cold, frozen in time, and she was surrounded by the dead. A lock behind her clicked shut.

At dawn, she was roused by a fever and aching joints. The sun rose to its glory over the shimmering marshes, and the fog haunted like the ghosts of people she once knew.

* * *

In the morning, she saddled her horse – a tall black stallion with his four white socks neatly brushed, a markedly different breed from Skyrim's cumbersome drafts. Camilla had spent a fortune on him, a whole half-year's worth of gold, and yet another month of commissions to obtain his saddle, of which was a glossy black tooled leather, a treed saddle often reserved for the nobility.

“ _~ O bright sun of the night, I lift my eyes up to thee ~_ ” She sang absently, while tying and tightening a pair of burlap bags to the saddle. Her entire assortment of personal belongings fit comfortably inside them. “ _~ O ye amber golden light, let the dark sweep o'er me ~_ ” Her wrists strained. Veins visible like snakes under her skin. “ _~ Mighty cauldron, O nidus, I surrender all to thee ~_ ” And, like a vagabond, Camilla latched her sullen bedroll – her home, all she had – to the cantle. “ _~ Panacean nothingness, when nothing is left ~_ ”

With all her possessions in tow, humming listlessly to herself, the witchhunter put a foot in the stirrup and climbed into the saddle. The horse was named Stormy, for he coursed as if made of wind, and the drum of his hooves you could mistake for thunder.

“Nice voice. Bard's College?” A passing stablehand asked.

“Me? No, no.” Camilla managed a genuine smile, turning Stormy on his hindquarters. “I travel a lot. Get bored on the road. Singing breaks the monotony.” And she raised a question, though she already knew the answer well enough; “How long to Markarth from here?”

“On a horse like that? Three weeks.”

“So, two.” She accepted.

The stallion pranced excitedly, engaged by a sharp heel to the side. Dauntless, entirely steadfast and renewed by a cold, wholly Imperial determination, Camilla set the warhorse aflight beyond the Solitude gates, and the weathered cobblestone roads could hardly contain their wild fury.

* * *

They galloped across the open plains and rocky outcrops of Haafingar, stopping only for short-lived and fitful sleep. Day after day, every rest felt hollow as the last. One night though, as wildflowers and distant mountains imprinted upon her final waking thoughts, she drifted into a photographic memory, a horrific nostalgia, and it was truly a nightmare.

_< “I did magic today.” The child heiress admitted absently, as if she were discussing the weather._

_There was a momentary pause that echoed through the entire dining hall. Everyone stopped – the butler nearly tripped, the stewardess left her mouth agape, and even her Father raised an eyebrow, seeming to completely lose interest in his meal._

_“Millie, that's wonderful. We're so proud of you.” Mother clapped softly. “But, why did Magister Saruien not tell us? Surely he would have -”_

_“I wasn't with Saruien.” She explained, shifting uncomfortably and refusing the make eye contact. “I was with Dorian. We were just messing around and I did magic.”_

_“Won't you show us?” Father inquired. And within the feverish nightmare, his tone was somehow more accusatory than she remembered._

_“No.”_

_“Well, that's very unlike you, Millie.” >_

All the walls closed in, phasing the nightmare into dark pastures.

_< “Dorian, please...” She pleaded, taking his face in her hands. “...You're full of magic. I...I could feel it. The magic I did – it came from you. When I -” And she lost herself in the thought. The very consideration of such a vile thing felt intrusive. Camilla shook with uncertain violence – as if restrained by anxiety rather than discipline. “- I tasted your magic. Please, if you just give me one more chance – just that I can perform for Father tomorrow...!”_

_“Millie, come on...” The young Imperial withdrew nervously. “You're being weird...we were just playing around.” Now, the sun had set beyond the hills of the West Weald, and the lamplight against the fences and farmhouses provided little comfort. His eyes darted about carelessly. “You should probably go see a healer. We can go to chapel together in the morning.”_

_“No! I don't need a healer!” The heiress looked deeply offended. “I just need enough magic for tomorrow.”_

_“Here.” She unsheathed a small knife from her hip. “Just make a small cut – like yesterday -”_

_Dorian flinched, and reminded her;_

_“Yesterday was an accident!”_

_“Look, I'll make it up to you! I'll - I'll sleep with you, or buy you a sword. I'm a Countesse...I can get you anything. Anything. You know that.” She begged childishly, though within reason, and Dorian moved in shyly, still conscious of the deep unease sending shivers down his spine. It was cold, but she took his hand – his wrist, rather – and she was warm. Deliriously warm. With skin that suddenly felt to him like satin, glowing pale under the slivers of moons. Maybe it would be a fair trade. She could have his magic, and he could have her. He knew that, for all her peculiarities, she was eerily beautiful. “Just roll up your sleeve!”_

_Dorian growled and raised the sleeve of his shirt, bunching it up at the elbow. Temptation fortified him._

_“Okay. Fine.” He concluded. “But you had better keep your word. And don't do anything weird – or, er, weirder than what you're doing. I'm still going with you to chapel tomorrow.”_

_She knew nothing of anatomy – of how to open a vein or how such a thing might be done properly and without risk. How hard could it be? Just a precarious little swipe of the blade, and -_

_Dorian gasped and screeched in pain._

_In one sweeping motion, she gouged the edge of the knife across his skin, slicing a vicious wound thrice the size of last night's accident. She'd carved a gash worthy of a scar, down to the bone, without plan or practice. But who needed practice to reach such a simple objective? It was right there. It pooled a deep crimson upon the skin of her friend's wrist. An offering. Magic._

_Blood._

_“MILLIE! You idiot! That's going to KILL me!” Dorian started to panic and recoiled his wrist from her grasp. But he could not shake her. Rather, her grip seemed to tighten as he resisted, pulling him closer, restricting him at the elbow, then through his entire arm, like a paralyzing spell, until she had him pinned on the ground with a hand on his neck, knee buried deep in his abdomen, and the wrist – gushing blood to the point of dizziness – lifted close to her lips. Another kiss, he imagined deliriously, another kiss to make the pain go away..._

_“No! You said I could have your magic! I need it! Your blood is magic!”_

_She took the wound in her mouth, determined and haphazard. Abandoning all the quiet affection of last night's kiss, she kissed now with her teeth, and bit mindlessly into the gash. A surge of blood swelled under the pressure, and it hit her tongue in a torrent of salt and iron that completely drowned her senses. Her throat seized. Her entire mouth ached intensely. And yet, she felt it - the sudden tinge of magic, stronger now than ever before. She drank it in, hot and vital, so saturated in the magicka she craved beyond anything._

_It overwhelmed her. Eyes wide and ragged, Camilla managed a congested cough, almost choking on the thick slough of blood. It dripped from her teeth, mixed with saliva and stuck to the tongue. She lifted her head up as if breaching the surface a deep ocean, and let out a suffocated gasp._

_Dorian retched and his breathing quickened. Frozen in astute horror, yet entirely enthralled. The wound gaped. It bled and bled, truly lethal, and his pulse was weakening._

_“S-Stop! Let me go...!” He screeched. “Foul...blood-drinker..! Vampire!” A surge of vital energy overcame him – louder, brutal, like some tenuous final burst of life before death. Dorian screamed again. He thrashed and screamed until his throat was raw. >_

The dreamscape was cast then into fire, a field of torches against the night. The screams and scents of smoke and cinder that she'd almost forgotten in her waking life still thrived tortuously in her sleep. Mother was pulling her anxiously by the wrist, leading her down a long hall – in the nightmare's throes it seemed to never end. Shadowy patterns impeded her vision down a steep slope. Mother, her black hair all draped and disheveled, handed her a ring, and clasped it in her palms. She said something; muted, like an unrecognizable whisper. She heard the violent cry of a horse being struck and saw the apparition of a jet black wolf with red eyes coursing beside her, a great blade of ebony and gold held between its teeth. That was the last thing her dreams could twist into these awful visions.

Camilla woke, startled, paralyzed inside the remnants of nightmarish stupor. The witchhunter lay on her back, staring up at the sky, just as daybreak eked its way through the alpine canopy.

“...Mom...dad...I'm sorry...” She covered her face, and arched her back against the soil. The cool mountain air chilled her to the bone, and everything about her body – it's tired motions, its restless shivers, the way it demanded food and thirsted for the water she heard rushing beyond the hills - for just a fleeting moment, she felt so entirely and ineffably mortal.

Stormy nickered nearby. It was still another day's ride to Markarth.

* * *

Under the pall of thick flurries, she arrived as a towering dark figure, yet no one bothered to see her. Ambiguous, in a simple ragged navy gambeson and well-worn leather boots, she urged Stormy through the snow. The beast lurched forward, distressing their war dogs – a pack of white mastiffs – who barked in alert as she passed. No one seemed to care.

So Camilla let her eyes wander around the camp, noticing its makeshift construction and overwhelmingly human residents. There were no mer here – no one older than she might have appeared. Ideal. It steeled her resolve.

She untacked Stormy and handed him off to a passing legionnaire, who marveled at the majesty of the animal. Now, it was time she sought out the Legate.

* * *

“Legate Procyon Augustus. I'll be conducting your interview.” The Legate was much taller than she, not at all fair-skinned and well adjusted to his bruised – probably cherished – commander's regalia.

She nodded respectfully and accepted the friendly handshake.

“Camilla. Freelance witchhunter, at your serv - ” She stopped. “Interview?”

“Yes, of course. The Legion conducts interviews on all temporary mercenary hires. Did you expect to just...walk up to an Imperial Officer and have quests handed out to you without question?” Camilla though about it for a second before managing a bewildered frown. Procyon grabbed a large book with heavy bindings from a nearby shelf, and led her with an outstretched hand. “Right this way. I hope you've brought your credentials.”

He sat her down at a wooden table, huddled inside a red tent that had certainly borne the brunt of one too many of Skyrim's potent storms. It was already late into the afternoon. The first signs of sundown peeking their rays over the jagged mountain range of the Reach. If this interview took too long, the Legate might need to grab a candle.

Well, grab a candle he did – snapped his fingers with a precocious spark, and lit the wick with magic. He placed it between them. And she suspected the lines of her face must have looked especially drawn in the candlelight, for he became somewhat uneasy, like a child remembering the tragic ending to some awful faery tale.

“So, Camilla, you're not a Skyrim native. And not one of the commonfolk. I can tell by your accent.” The Legate informed her, and Millie gave him a puzzled look – perhaps mildly impressed.

“Excuse me?”

Procyon tapped his quill against the blank pages.

“Your accent. It's not strong, but it's there. You're from Cyrodiil?”

Confounded, she stuttered a bit, supposing one never really loses their mother tongue. But she'd been living in Skyrim for so long - that kitsch Imperial accent couldn't have sounded like anything more than a passing novelty by now. “I...Yes....I was born in Cyrodiil.”

Her interviewer smiled thoughtfully.

“A fellow Heartlander! Lady Camilla!” He repeated her name with such typical Imperial camaraderie, yet the honorific he attached inspired her pride like nothing else. “So, what's an Imperial noble doing hunting witches and werebeasts in the deep woods of Skyrim?”

“It is a profession that suits me.” Camilla explained, regaining her composure. She kept her tone careful and practical. “And please, don't worry yourself. I am no noble... Perhaps I am well educated, but – you will understand - my family was stripped of lordship long ago. We – my family - they were -” She paused, contemplating darkly on the fragile mistake she'd just made. Measurements of time weren't quite as inconsequential for people with normal life spans. He picked up on the great and unending lie. “ - disposed of? The paths I followed led to Skyrim. Here, I am just a witchhunter.”

Procyon nodded. Not quite panicked, though his expression became cautious. She could hear his pulse quickening. Though his words were neither accusatory nor suspicious, something had obviously pricked a hidden nerve. Millie bit her lip, silently chastising herself for making such an idiotic error. But the legate reassured his hire with another smile, and continued to jot down some notes on his ledger restlessly.

“Couldn't find a manor to call home?” He tried to joke about it. It wasn't very funny.

And Camilla afforded the legate a piercing glare – a warning, if he knew any better.

“Oh, stop it. I said, I am no noble here in Skyrim.” She shook her head. “What does a Nordic peasant know of the Imperial aristocracy? And titles hardly find use against a rogue werewolf in the woods. We are as strangers here. And it is better that way.” The witchhunter looked to the hilt of her sword. It's silver gleamed in the torchlight. “Why don't you just sign the border pass? I am qualified. I came here for a job.”

“Have you ever been interviewed? This is a very intensive process! You must be qualified, but also reliable, genuine, loyal to the Empire -” He fixed his position, trying to remain dutifully upright. “ - and a bit of good conversation never hurt anyone.”

Millie rested an elbow on the table and propped her head like a rebellious child, making it her business to look as impetuously bored as possible. Her speechcraft was slipping - badly. She wanted a border pass. She wanted to go home. She wanted now, more than anything, to carve a new scar into history. This man wanted conversation.

He wanted _genuine_ conversation.

Once he'd decided on his next inquiry, the legate cleared his throat and continued;

“So, I see you're a vampire hunter as well? Sounds like a terrifying business. Aren't you afraid of being bitten -?”

“No.” She responded, disinterested, but entirely genuine.

“Ah, because you are an alchemist? You have all those potions -”

“No. Because my blood tastes like dirt -” Legate Procyon did not shift his eyes from the ledger, but his body tensed up, suddenly and visibly recoiling, like he could feel a demon just laid hands on his shoulders. “ - to vampires. Imagine it like a human drinking saltwater.” Camilla watched the quiet revulsion wax and wane as her potential employer puzzled over his next question. Dipping his quill into the nearest inkwell and scribbling some Imperial numerals in a column, eventually, he managed one.

“You're...not a vampire, are you...?”

She rolled her eyes again, like he'd just asked a question with some obvious answer.

“No. I'm a witchhunter.” She paused, then added; “But there are _reasons_ why I am good at my job.”

“Well then, if you could describe those reasons to me -”

She commanded a cryptic pause that lingered for just a bit too long.

“I _am_ a dhampir. A half-vampire, if you must be so informal.” Camilla closed her eyes and reflected upon something hazy. “That is the reason.”

“That wasn't really what I -”

“You're not in danger.” She interrupted, reassured him, but doubted it provided any peace of mind. “I can feel your curiosity.”

“I suppose it sounds like good conversation.” The Legate laughed wryly, so obviously and entirely out of fear.

“Does it? You honor me.”

The witchhunter folded her hands, and drew a deep, tense breath, betraying an entire lifetime of agonizing memory staring down a quill and inkwell. What would he write? Her memory was clear and exhaustive. How would she explain it all? This life and history of a creature gone unwitnessed since the dawn of the fourth era. She would make herself into a primary source, featured in the next editions of the very bestiaries she'd read over the soft glow of campfires by night. Real. Authentic. Is that what was needed, now more than ever?

One last voyage back to the home she remembered so dearly – in her own words, untarnished by nightmares, before some great time of reckoning might condemn that memory forever.

“I was born in the twenty-second year of the fourth era, under the sign of The Lord, in a quaint little city in the Colovian West – you may have visited it in your travels – the city of Skingrad.”


End file.
